Eurydice
by Laurie M
Summary: Part eight in the seemingly unending 'Nemesis' series. Maybe there are questions that shouldn't be asked out loud.


**DISCLAIMER: **I DO NOT OWN _THE CLOSER_ OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS - I'M JUST PLAYING WITH THEM.

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**Eurydice**

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_1. Kind Of Blue_

In the open-plan house in Silver Lake with its tiled floors and well-worn but artfully arranged furniture and abundance of potted palms and swimming pool with the kids' bright tubes floating in it there were few places to hide. But Brenda had, after some little trouble, found a place. The bathroom. Guest. More tile, blue and white this time with flashes of turquoise: tiled floors and walls, Jackson Pollock print on the wall. She stares at it hopelessly.

The bathroom in the house in which she lives (she still can't think of it as home) is painted green, which she hates, but which she has neither the time nor the inclination nor the impetus to change.

Their hostess, Sandy - no, _Sonia_ - would not permit in her home anything of which she does not approve. And it is a home: tasteful, yes, but the signs of wear, of family life, are everywhere. In the bicycles of various colours and sizes resting against the side of the house, in the 'A'-graded homework pinned proudly to the fridge, in the photographs that live in clusters on assorted walls and side-tables and shelves.

The Pollock matches the tiles - blue and white. Brenda transfers her gaze from it to her shoes, puts her head in her hands and practises breathing.

In, out, in, out, in-

She plays a game, a leftover from childhood. _When I look up, if the first tile I see is blue it will be all right. If I can find a piece of candy in my bag it will be all right. If I can get out of here before I go crazy it will be all right._

It is the question she already knows the answer to but she asks it again, _What am I doing here? _Not the _here_ here, but the here she was hiding from, the one beyond the bathroom door. Music trickles through, a steady pleasant rhythm, and above it the light hum of voices. Laughter. The other three, at least, are having a good time.

She counts twenty-seven blue tiles in one row, tiny chips with slight gradations in colour.

They are nice people, Sonia and her husband, but _what is she doing here-_

She starts to count the white tiles.

Because it was Fritz' colleague and he - _they_ - had been promising for months that they'd go over for dinner, and it had been arranged sometime when she hadn't really been paying attention and-

_'Just once, Brenda, can't we do what normal couples do?'_

Fritz, amused and exasperated and pleading and-

_'Of course. Of course we can. Honey.'_

The endearment added at the last moment, an afterthought, something to pacify, to take the hurt away. She had put her arms around his neck, kissed him, been allowed to coax him back into contentment.

Sonia, she thinks gloomily, is perfect. Mother of two, high school English teacher, coaches the soccer team. Fritz wants them to be friends, maybe hoping some of Sonia's finer points will rub off on her, she thinks, and immediately feels the all-too familiar spear of guilt at the thought.

_If there are more blue tiles than white it will be all right._

Sonia had mandated a no shop-talk clause for the evening. It meant, in reality, a no crime-talk clause, as she had no qualms about informing them, in exhaustive detail, of the trials and tribulations of the high school teacher.

But as a gesture of goodwill, Brenda had adhered to The Clause and, consequently, had found her conversational repertoire limited in the extreme. Worse yet when-

_'We'll leave the boys to their boy talk.'_

Sonia had talked at her relentlessly in the kitchen about her precocious offspring for the best part of forty minutes; and Brenda had felt the muscles in her face screaming with the effort at maintaining a smile.

The blue and white - and flashes of turquoise - have started to bleed into each other, an indeterminate mass that gives the impression of waves, cool water that might just wash her away.

When her phone rings the sharp tone bounces around the walls, shrill and discordant and she thinks it is the most beautiful sound she has ever heard.

'Yes, Sergeant Gabriel.'

On the other side of the door she hitches her bag over her shoulder, takes a breath and wonders if anyone would really notice if she simply slipped away.

'Brenda.'

Fritz, expectant and smiling. He closes in on her and she tilts her head up, returns the smile and feels the ache return.

'I just got a call...'

The lines harden, expectancy morphs into suspicion then into disbelief.

'You're leaving.' Flat.

'I have to.'

'You have an entire squad. They can't do without you for a few hours?'

'There are two people dead and a child missing; I'd have thought _that_ would matter to you.'

He catches his breath and she sees the hurt, again, knows the unfairness of her words, and she punches through it, a transgression for which she will do penance later. 'We have a Critical Missing; what am I supposed to do?'

His hands land lightly on her arms and his head shakes once, sharp. 'Of course. How are you getting there?'

'There's a car coming.'

'I'll wait with you.'

'No.' She slides her hands across his shoulders and smiles and the ache recedes a little. 'You stay with your friends and have a good time.'

Outside the air is clammy, a sticky brininess that clings immediately to her skin and hair. Sonia's disappointment at her departure had almost seemed genuine. There's a light on in one of the bedrooms, a hazy shadow against the blind. One of Jack-'n-Sonia's astonishing progeny watching the stranger lurking on the sidewalk outside their house. Loitering without intent, she thinks, and is amused by the non-joke.

Light flares across the end of the street, sharpening around the corner into the glare of oncoming headlights. The car comes on, not slowing before it pulls in suddenly and stops just in front of her. Flynn leans across, pushes the passenger-side door open for her. She slides in and one corner of his mouth twists.

'I'm sorry, Chief.'

'There's no need to be sorry, Lieutenant.'

_2. All I Really Want To Do (Is, Baby, Be Friends With You)_

It isn't a smile she flashes at him. Her lips are thinned, tight; they curve up slightly at the corners, a hard line against the white of her face. It looks like the kind of non-smile she's been wearing for a while and doesn't know how to stop.

They peel away from the kerb, thread through the quiet streets.

Quiet in the car too, the silence forming a palimpsest of unspoken things seeping through scratches. The big black square of her purse is balanced awkwardly on her knees, catching the hem of her dress and sliding it an inch further up her thighs. A red dress, very close-fitting, white trim. Not the sort of thing she would wear in the squad room. At least, not the sort of thing she should wear in the squad room, but probably has. It suits her.

The silence is broken only by the engine, the shifting gears, her feet rustling against the newspaper Provenza had dumped in the passenger-side footwell earlier that day. The crossword he had been working on finally abandoned with only two clues left. Nice of him, Flynn thinks with some irritation, to leave his litter lying around the place. Like a little memento, as though he really needed one.

He'll keep hold of the paper, leave it on the old grouch's desk as a calling card. Better yet, turn it into confetti and make a ritual of it, spreading a little each day.

Beside him Brenda slips her purse off her lap, fitting it into the space beside her feet and the hem slides smoothly up another half-inch.

He's never been good with silence. Not this sort. He begins to talk before he's aware of it, a story that even he will admit is probably not the wisest, most appropriate, choice but once he's started he can't stop. He makes the most of it, anyhow, adding embellishments, drawing it out with pauses- _'And then... And then...'_

When he stops talking, more silence.

Brenda, now with her cheek propped against her hand, turns fully. 'And? What happened then?'

'Nothing, that was it.'

Another pause. 'That is a terrible story.'

'Yes, ma'am, it is.'

There's a sound, low in her throat, that pleasant, husky laughter, just audible above the engine's guttural moan. He allows himself a moment to join her in that. Her shoulders still spasm, the sound forced out in choked gasps. Not laughter, he realises, she isn't laughing anymore. The keening note rises and falls and out of the corner of his eye he watches her, horrified. One hand covers her face, the other clutches the straps of her purse, the knuckles showing white.

'Chief?'

The effort of trying to hold it in makes it worse. She is hunched, miserably, straining against the confining clasp of her seatbelt.

He pulls over, cutting the engine, calling her again, again getting no response.

The violence of her sobs is frightening.

She isn't the sort of woman who cries easily. He's seen her tearful, yes, on the verge but never quite breaking. Most of the time it is done for effect, something done to get her own way, a weapon used against the more sentimental males she encounters. Flynn is used to seeing that, but not this, this ... outpouring. It has the ferocity of grief, of despair, its jagged sound clawing at him. It is the sort of scene he has been trained to expect, has trained himself to deal with. But this is unexpected and he is - unexpectedly - defenceless against it.

_Stop. God, stop, please. Oh God, please make her stop._

He touches her arm, gentle, tentative- 'Chief, please' -his fingers fumble against the clasp; her seatbelt releases and she falls against him, her face turns into his shoulder and she weeps.

The stiff awkward circles he rubs against her back can bring little comfort, he thinks. The loose strands of her hair cling to his fingers, wrapping around them; the fabric of her dress feels alternately rough then smooth and beneath it her body is rigid, the muscles locked, and feverish heat rises off her. He moves the thick coil of hair away from the back of her neck; it holds a wilfully tropical scent, flowers after the rain - a bottled idyll to be applied, rinsed, repeated.

One of her hands curls around the lapel of his jacket, stretching the threads taut, holding on like it's the thing keeping her steady. He stops his pattern of circles, rests his hand flat against the wall of her back and the only movement is the wrenching jerk each time she takes a breath.

The noise stops for one long moment. He feels the strain run through her, feels her shaking, feels the long choking breath she blows out before catching it, dragging it back again. In, out, in-

She pushes away from him, sits with her hands covering her face.

'Don't be nice to me; I don't think I can stand it.'

'Yeah. I've noticed that what most women want is a good kick in the teeth.'

Her body spasms again, but the damp and dampened sound that accompanies it is not another sob. 'I'm sorry,' she says, indistinct, through her hands.

'It's okay.'

'No, no it isn't.'

Deprived of their consoling occupation, his hands hover restlessly; one finds its place on the steering wheel, the other questions the air.

Brenda raises her head, shakes it. 'Oh, I must look a mess.'

'No, you look fine.'

She turns to him. Her face is flushed, eyes swollen and still glittering. 'I look terrible.'

His hand turns palm-upward; he shrugs. 'I've seen worse.'

Another sound that is not a sob. An almost-smile washes across her face. She does not stop looking at him; curled in the passenger seat in the half-shadow she studies him, strangely focused, strangely distracted, as though she's not really seeing him and still seeing too much. 'How did this happen?'

He moves his eyes, studying the patch of dust-smeared windshield a few inches past her head. It is a question for which he has no answer; he wonders if she really wants or needs one; he wonders if she realises she has actually asked it out loud. Headlights on full beam swing around the corner and he watches the approach. The white light is painfully dazzling; his eyes ache from the glare but he doesn't look away, doesn't shield them. Like searchlights slicing through the dark, penetrating his brain with the precision of a scalpel. Everything else recedes. It's strangely quiet in that bright place, as though the brilliance bleaches the thoughts and feelings that cause so much confusion, banishing them to the place beyond its perimeter where they can no longer be seen.

The car passes them, the shadows denser in its wake. He hears her sigh softly.

When he looks at her again she has retrieved her purse, hunts through the depths, pulls out a lipstick, a compact, pulls down the visor and squints at herself in the mirror. 'Do I look like I've been crying?' Her voice is quiet.

'Uh... No.'

Her eyes flick sideways. 'You're a terrible liar.'

The breath he releases feels like a stone rising through his chest; even the release doesn't diminish its weight. It is a feeling with which he is becoming accustomed. 'That is true.'

The compact snaps shut, sounding far too loud in the confines of the car for such a small thing. There is a finality to it.

'We should get to the crime scene, Lieutenant. And, uh... And I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about ... this.'

He thinks it should occur to him to be offended that she thinks she has to ask. He says gently: 'Of course not.'

Her head lowers again, fingers busy with the contents of her purse. Her face still looks flushed. 'Thank you.'

The engine turns over and they join the thin trickle of traffic. Her purse slides back down to rest beside her feet and she pulls the hem of her dress down a few inches.

Silence.

'I guess that crime won't solve itself, unfortunately. Then again, if it did we'd all be out of work.'

Her head moves, a nod, and it isn't quite a smile she flashes at him.

_3. A Good Man Is Hard To Find_

The car rolls to a stop a few metres before the criss-crossing lines of yellow tape, a few metres back still from the edge of the arc lights that have been set up, their unblinking ferocity flooding the scene. Figures move about, elongated silhouettes against the unnatural glare.

The air is still sticky, heavy. When she pulls in a breath it feels like taking syrup into her lungs. She feels the familiar solid presence behind her, waiting, and pulls her phone out of her bag, busies herself pretending to read the messages that aren't there. 'You go on ahead, Lieutenant, I'll catch you up.'

Still behind her for a moment, then she feels his movement before he passes into her line of sight. 'Okay, Chief.'

She watches him, takes in the angles, the hard contours, the way he slips in and out of her focus in the indeterminate light between the crime scene and where she is. She cannot stop watching. If he makes it to the light-

_If he makes it to the light it will be all right. If he doesn't turn back before he reaches the light it will be all right. If he doesn't see me watching it will be all right. If he doesn't look back he won't see. He mustn't see. Don't look back. Don't._

He reaches the edge, the hard line drawn against the night by the arc lights; and just before he steps into it he stops, turns, and across the empty space his eyes find her face.

**FIN**


End file.
